Gordon was a well-trained dachsund from an appropriately suburban household, somewhere in Michigan, Utah, whatever.
Gordon was a man of few words, due in part to the fact that he was not actually a man (this is debatable, there are many men in the world less manly than Gordon, in one way or another)

So Gordon mostly kept to himself, not entirely because of childhood trauma but almost (the pet-psychiatrist in charge of Gordon's case has yet to decide), his main concern being the obtention of assorted collagen-smeared animal parts, that his owner, of whom we shall speak shortly, delivers from a metallic canister every morning and deposits into his small pastel-blue doggie bowl with an audibly amusing "florp".
This sound, of course, is not amusing to Gordon, who, the elongated furry philistine that he is, does not even notice it.

Gordon's owner, however, is quite the opposite. A large, steaming haybail of a man in his twenties (most would say that he is still considered young. People with jobs that only seem to earn them a nice trainride on weekday mornings and a frigid wife on the weekends). His name is Henry.
Henry leads an interesting lifestyle, in comparison with those who seem to think he is unqualified to sit behind a large wooden desk with a nice dark green leather centerpad for seven hours a day, five days a week.
Henry wanted one of those desks, though. He thought that it would go well in his kitchen as a breakfast table.
So Henry leads an interesting lifestyle.

Growing up, Henry got the chance to live the fantasy of every women and sexually confused man on earth: becoming the live-in sex slave of an extremely rich aging man who slightly resembled Anthony Hopkins, but not so much as to look exactly like him, because Anthony Hopkins really isn't that attractive (he is a good actor though). And recieved large allowances that he invested in slightly disgusting ventures such as silicone breast implants on himself, and actually buying contemporary art.
The old man who had been charged with the care of Henry eventually died of semi-natural causes, leaving all of his possessions to the Raelian organization.
Henry was slightly angered at this decision because he apparently was signed into the mortgage of the house; and since the only people who joined raelian organizations were obviously impotant, bald, middle-aged white people, he could not help but shudder at the kind of women they would inevitably drag along with them who would be in need of a sex-slave of Henry's' quality.

That was years ago. Henry has since been treated for pelvic trauma.

Gordon didn't give a shit.